


put out the fire in your head

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester, Human Castiel, M/M, flagrant abuse of science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2676041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t think he would ever hear Dean sound this way again. Tired, wry, self-deprecating, and human.</p><p>“Hey,” he says back.</p><p>“Tell me something good, Cas.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	put out the fire in your head

**Author's Note:**

> Ambiguously early-season-10 fluff and absurdity. Partly written for me to practice/try out Castiel's point of view. The title is from the Patty Griffin song "Not Alone." My Tumblr is [over here](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com).

“Hey.”

Castiel didn’t think he would ever hear Dean sound this way again. Tired, wry, self-deprecating, and human.

“Hey,” he says back.

“Tell me something good, Cas.”

Castiel should leave. Hannah is waiting for him. He has his duty, and Dean will be safe for a while longer. He’d only meant to give himself one last glimpse around the bunker, a self-indulgent impulse that let Dean catch up with him here in the kitchen. Maybe Castiel hoped for this encounter.

Dean’s fingers drum against the countertop, empty of the First Blade. He’s waiting. “Just before you go, man,” he prompts. “For the road.”

Oh. Dean asked him for something. Castiel isn’t used to hesitating, or to things slipping out through the grasp of his memory.

“Squid have the largest eyes in the current animal kingdom,” he offers. “They’re designed so well that they have no blind spot.”

Dean’s laughter, low and startled and somehow amazing, follows Castiel back out to the car. He missed it, he realizes as he pulls away from the bunker and an unbidden bitterness sinks into his stomach. He’s learned enough about being human to identify the feeling as longing.

 

Castiel grows wearier and wearier, his renewed grace fading just as he knew it would. Hannah didn’t think about stopping to sleep before, but now she lurks around his shoulders and she urges him into finding a motel room one night.

Sleep pulls him in too fast and too easy, and when Castiel wakes up with his heart hammering against the confines of his chest, he’s momentarily relieved to have escaped.

Hannah’s eyes almost glow in the darkness. Castiel is losing the ability to see her true form, its angles and impossibilities projected sketchily around her vessel. They flicker in and out of his vision.

“Your cell phone,” she says. That’s what woke him up.

_hey hit me w/ another one_

Castiel curls in on himself, resting his forehead against his kneecaps. The motel sheets feel tacky and sweat-slick. His phone chimes again.

_sorry man I guess you might be asleep. Anyway hope ur keeping ur nose clean_

“Another what,” Castiel mouths down at the harshly-lit screen, which is informing him that it is a few minutes past four o’clock in the morning.

He sleeps for two more fitful hours, then wakes up with the sun and, before he can forget, texts Dean back: _275 million new stars are born every day._

 

“Hey,” Dean says again. His voice is muffled across distance and the connection between their cell phones. “What’s shaking?”

“Very little,” Castiel says dryly. “You’re hunting, aren’t you?” He’s learned enough about human communication to let the next part go unsaid: _against my advice, despite how badly you need a break._

Dean makes a noncommittal sound into the receiver. “This is my normal, man. Dean Winchester baseline.”

Castiel hums neutrally back at him.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, his voice slipping into its usual hard edges, defensiveness.

Castiel cuts him off with an offering: “Your body makes over three hundred billion new cells each day, Dean.”

Dean smiles. Castiel can’t see it, and he isn’t entirely sure how he knows—but he does. He knows, and it warms him for hours after they’ve hung up.

 

Dean takes care of him, efficient and stern and maybe a little fond, once it’s gone. Once he’s ripped the weakly-pulsing shreds of his grace out, admitted surrender to the encroaching press of humanity, and entrusted Hannah with the rest.

“Stop squirming,” Dean instructs. He pulls the covers up around Castiel’s ears, brushing back Castiel’s greasy hair with callused fingertips.

Castiel huffs an irritated breath. He _hurts_ , in more places than he can count—which is new. He’s always been able to quantify before, to put neat facts and numbers to his experiences even as the qualifiable spins out of his control.

“I’m making you soup,” Dean says.

“Wait.” Castiel still has the strength to grab for Dean’s wrist, the pad of his thumb sliding against the soft inside of Dean’s forearm. Dean’s sleeve is rolled up to his elbow, and as he goes still, Castiel feels the minute shift of his muscles. The fine golden hairs are soft under his fingers.

Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Dean,” Castiel says, “you have three hundred million capillaries in your lungs.” He remembers putting them back together and watching the first stuttering, terrified breath Dean took.

“Okay,” Dean says. The corners of his mouth twitch up. “Awesome.”

He does make Castiel soup, as promised. And hot chocolate, and a slice of reheated pie, until Castiel is surrendering to his first human sleep in months.

 

Castiel doesn’t intend to make Dean uncomfortable. In fact, he’s not entirely sure it’s his fault.

There’s baseball on the TV. Castiel knows that, now; he can tell the differences between these games. Dean doesn’t sit and watch—he bustles, ambling past to bring Castiel a bottle of beer, to find a cloth so he can polish his favorite gun, to bring Sam the folder of Xeroxes he’s been looking for.

“Sit,” Castiel says. He leans over the back of the couch, takes hold of Dean’s elbow. The flesh gives just slightly under his grip. The skin at the inside of Dean’s arm is velvety, soft.

“Uhh.” Dean swallows, so Castiel watches as his throat moves, the slide of his Adam’s apple. And then, extraordinarily, Dean blushes, his blood vessels blooming open.

Castiel licks his lips. “You know, when you do that, the lining of your stomach blushes as well.”

Dean turns redder still. “Jesus, Cas, I’m not—I don’t blush,” he lies.

Castiel squeezes Dean’s upper arm. “Sit,” he repeats. “Until the end of the inning, at least.”

There’s a hint of surprise to Dean’s expression, but he nods, and he sits. They watch together until the end of the game forty-five minutes later.

 

It’s impossible, Castiel thinks, to really understand how _tired_ one can be until one is human. His limbs are heavy, his eyelids drooping; he can think of almost nothing but how close they are to the motel and to a bed. It’s good Dean is driving. Dean has more years of working through this kind of exhaustion.

“We did good today,” Dean says, kicking his boots off. He does that the same way each time, Castiel has noticed: yanking at the laces until he becomes impatient, then nudging his sock-clad feet out of them with his toes. “I bet Sam’s hunt was way boring.”

“Mm.” Castiel stretches out on his bed. The pillow is flat, mysteriously stained, and unbelievably inviting.

“Whoa, hey.” Before Castiel can move or protest, Dean is tugging his jacket off for him, quick and efficient. He untucks the tails of Castiel’s shirt, unknots his tie. Easy, practiced, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs in cursory protest.

“You’re beat, pal,” Dean says. “Guess this isn’t Cas normal yet.”

Castiel drifts, compliant with weariness. Dean bundles him under the scratchy sheets and thin comforter, yanks them back up around him, and leans down to brush his lips against Castiel’s forehead.

Dean freezes halfway to straightening.

“Dean,” Castiel says. His vision shifts back into focus when he locks his gaze on Dean’s face: the spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lower lip in the dim lighting. “There are,” he ventures, “more nerve endings in your lips than any other part of your body.”

For a moment, Dean stares. Then he blinks, he relaxes, and he laughs. Castiel falls asleep less than five minutes later.

 

It’s an easy routine, instinctive. Castiel hates to see Dean’s shoulders lock up, the minute twitch as his jaw clenches. _Something good_ , or Castiel’s version, relaxes him. The lines around his forehead smooth and those around his eyes deepen with amusement.

The next time, though, Castiel can’t see Dean’s face or hear his voice. All he knows is the sudden tension where his palms rest at Dean’s biceps. Dean’s sharp intake of horrified breath where their mouths are open and warm against each other.

“Shit,” Dean breathes, already scrambling backwards on the couch, “shit, sorry—”

Castiel is too slow, his new and human brain struggling to make the right connections. Dean honestly believes he’s somehow erred.

“Wait.”

Dean won’t make eye contact. His eyelashes are long, thick, beautiful in some indefinable way that makes Castiel’s nerves hum with uneasy wanting.

“Your eyes.” Castiel leans closer. Dean’s breaths are quick and shallow. “Your eyes—they were the first thing I remade. They’re unimaginably complex, Dean. You can see millions of colors.”

Finally, Dean looks up. “You’re a piece of work,” he says, but what matters is that it worked. It worked, because Dean smiles and he doesn’t stop smiling, not even when Castiel urges him into another kiss.

 

Castiel has seen Heaven only as an angel, never as a human, but he remembers his glimpse of Dean’s version of paradise. Long, winding roads. The promise of freedom.

Perhaps this moment comes close: the column of Dean’s spine stretched out endlessly before him, shining with sweat, curved and shivering under Castiel’s hands. Dean’s ragged breaths, the tension of his anticipation.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean whines. His erection is heavy in Castiel’s hand, hot with blood.

“Mmhmm.” Castiel nips at the nape of Dean’s neck.

“I said I’m ready, man.”

Castiel needs a moment to breathe through the arousal that tightens his muscles at the memory of the last thirty minutes. Dean’s hands twisting in the sheets; Dean’s body, scarred and lovely, swallowing up one of Castiel’s fingers, then another and another; Dean’s back arching off the bed and his rumbling growl of unadulterated pleasure.

“I’m here,” Castiel says, and he slides in, in, slick with the lubricant Dean had pressed into his hand with shaking fingers.

“Ah, fuck,” Dean gasps. His shoulder blades draw closer together, and Castiel stills.

“Dean Winchester,” he starts. His voice is a breathless whisper. It makes Dean shudder and shift and tighten around him and Castiel sucks in air through his open mouth. “Thousands of blades of grass gave their lives to bring you back. Dozens of trees.”

Dean’s head dips, the hair at the back of his neck sticking up in small tufts. Castiel rocks his hips forward and Dean groans.

“It’s still in you.” Castiel digs his fingers into the meat of Dean’s thigh. Too tight, maybe, but Dean only shifts back into the careful rhythm Castiel has begun. “That energy, of the earth—”

“Fuck,” Dean says again, wavery and high-pitched, and _oh_ , this angle, this is it. “The only thing I wanna have in me right now is your dick.”

Castiel chuckles, and then applies himself.

He’s unpracticed and uncoordinated, driving himself forward into the relentless heat of Dean, the thrum of unfettered life he knows is there, although he can no longer sense it the way he once did. Dean squirms under him, swearing and urging him on and bucking into the hold of Castiel’s fist, and the bow of Dean’s spine at the moment of his orgasm is perfect, so shattering and gorgeous that Castiel tries desperately to commit it to his memory on the spot.

He won’t remember, of course, not exactly. A human consciousness can’t hold onto such things, and the tightness of Dean around him is so _good_ , so distracting. Castiel leans his forehead against the dip between Dean’s shoulder blades as he comes, panting.

“God.” Dean scrubs both hands through his hair, his limbs unfurling into relaxation.

“Not anymore,” Castiel reminds him.

“Nerd,” Dean accuses through his yawn. He burrows into the sheets, reaching out and pawing at Castiel’s elbows and knees until Castiel curls in close to him despite the mess.

They’re quiet for long moments, Dean’s breath slowing in the warm space between them. Castiel closes his eyes, inhales and exhales, and wonders how many times the two of them can do this, and how many times it will take for him to commit every insignificant, direly important detail to indelible memory.

Dean makes a low noise at the back of his throat, one hand curling into a fist. The arm that bears the Mark, Castiel notes. He cups the back of Dean’s neck in his hand and fits his nose into the hollow of Dean’s throat.

“Well, hey,” Dean says, light and easy.

“Hey,” Castiel says back, and rubs his thumb against the thump of Dean’s pulse. Inexorable, despite how many times it's nearly stopped for good. “Dean—”

“ _Hey_ ,” Dean says again. It’s some kind of warning. And again, gentler: “Hey. I know. You don’t have to spell this one out for me.”

_Your existence is a miracle that I’ve been privileged to witness and facilitate._

Castiel hesitates. He strokes Dean’s hair. “I was just going to say,” he lies, “that you should set an alarm so we’re awake by the time Sam is back.”

“What makes you think I’m gonna fall asleep?” Dean asks around another yawn. He laces his fingers through Castiel’s, hooks a leg over Castiel’s hip, and drops off with his mouth brushing Castiel’s temple.

Castiel listens to the slowing steadiness of Dean’s heartbeat, remains painfully mortal and awake, and lets himself hope for something good to come for them.


End file.
